


Don't wake the monster (he's dreaming of butterflies)

by elletromil



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elletromil/pseuds/elletromil
Summary: Harry is aware he has forgotten years of his life. But the thing is, he has no desire to remember.





	Don't wake the monster (he's dreaming of butterflies)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KoohiiCafe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoohiiCafe/gifts).



> So this weekend on tumblr, pantequilasunrise raised the very good point that Harry seemed very unperturbed about being kept in a padded cell for like a whole year. After discussing it a bit more, well, I simply couldn't resist.
> 
> Fair warning, this doesn't has a happy resolution. The only one you'll have is the one you'll get with knowing what happen in the movie.

He wakes up to a world of pain and confusion, surrounded by machines he’s never seen before, in what he can only assume is an hospital of some sort. The impression is confirmed by the arrival at his side of a woman in a white coat that is either a nurse or maybe even a doctor.

“Oh! You’re awake!” She seems genuinely pleased and even if everything hurts, he makes an effort to answer her kind smile. “I just need to make some tests and then I’ll ask you a few questions and answer some of yours, is that alright?”

He nods, grateful that she tells him everything she’s about to do before actually doing it, slowly starting to trust her. Why he shouldn’t trust her when she is clearly part of the medical staff isn’t clear, but then again, nothing really is.

She’s done faster than he would have expected, or maybe he zoned out a bit during the procedures. He still feels exhausted after all.

“Do you remember who you are?” She asks after giving him the time to suck on a few ice cubes.

For a brief moment, he feels panic rising in his veins when he cannot remember his name at once. Surely, that’s the first thing he should remember, shouldn’t he?

Her hand come to rest comfortingly on his shoulder makes him jump, but she never loses her own calm. “It’s okay, you’ve had a head injury. Amnesia is a symptom I expected. I’m just trying to determine how far it goes. And I realise I never introduced myself,” she smiles sheepishly, before letting go of his shoulder to offer her hand for a handshake instead, “Ginger Ale, I’ll be taking care of you.”

As he takes her hand in his for a weak shake, he doesn’t really take notice of her rather unique name or her lack of medical title. But then again, it’s hard to concentrate on anything but the overwhelming relief he feels when his name falls from his lips, as if in automatism.

“Harry Hart. Pleased to make your acquaintance Mrs Ale.”

*

Harry cannot remember much, but he clings to all the pieces of himself he recalls. His name, his country of birth, his studies, his dream of finding an entirely unique butterfly.

Those details don’t seem to help Ginger – as she has asked him to call her – much in figuring out what his identity is, but she never gives up, never gets short with him, no matter how frustrating it must be for her.

That she is feeling frustration, Harry has no doubt. He doesn’t need to know her to read the lines of worry on her face every time she has to tell him they made no progress in finding out who he is.

Maybe it should worry him more too, but whatever he’s being given for his injuries, it’s strong and leaves him with very little care in what happens to him. Of course, a big part of it is because of the trust he places in Ginger, the woman having more than proven her competence to him.

He had wondered at first why she was the only one coming to see him, but her explanation that due to the nature of his injury, it was best to leave him in her expert care had reassured him. And he didn’t need her to tell him why he didn’t get any visitors. Who could she notify when she didn’t know who he was? A name was very little to go by it seems, especially in a foreign country.

But he has faith in her capability and worse come of it, surely he can start helping her once he’ll be completely healed up.

After all, he’s also curious as to what could have happened to him to leave him in such a state. He thinks Ginger knows some of it, but she assures him she isn’t sure of anything besides the extent of his injuries and that he should really focus on recovering from them for now.

It’s not an order he would argue with, especially not when migraines still plague him, no matter the drugs coursing through his veins.

*

It’s not been quite a month since Harry first woke up when Ginger walks into the room followed by a man he’s never seen before. Not that it is that much surprising, Ginger being the only one he’s seen day after day.

If he ever had doubt that he was no longer on English soil, he doesn’t have them anymore. No one sane in England would ever wear something so garrish as a cowboy hat after all.

The man – Tequila he thinks he hears Ginger call him and Americans truly have weird names don’t they? – doesn’t seem happy to be here, not that Harry can blame him. He cannot honestly say he likes the room now that he’s recovered.

Ginger doesn’t notice, or ignores whatever her companion’s grievances are, all her attention on her check-ups on Harry. She smiles happily when she announces he should be able to get out of bed in the following week and he smiles back, relief washing over him. He had started to fear he would be stuck in there forever.

“But I think it would be better if we could find out who you are before we let you loose.”

It’s a strange choice of words and of course he wouldn’t expect them to just discharge him when he’s got no clue where to go after that, but Tequila is surprisingly the one who speaks up.

“Ginger, you sure that’s a good idea?”

Harry frowns, confused, because he’s clearly talking about something else than his release. Something passes on Ginger’s face, gone too quick before he can figure out what emotion it is, but her smile has a sad twist to it now when she answers.

“We haven’t made any progress on our own. Harry’s the only one with the answers and he can’t find them if we don’t tell him everything.”

That’s… cryptic, to say the least, but apparently he’s the only one in the dark because Tequila nods, though he doesn’t look any more pleased than before. Less so, if possible, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on him as if he was about to shot out of bed and attack them.

He frowns at his own train of thoughts. Why would he want to attack them? They have done nothing but care for him since he opened his eyes, it would be a very strange way to repay their kindness.

Instead of trying to understand why Tequila clearly dislike him, or at least  _distrust_  him, he turns his eye back on Ginger. She was apparently waiting on him and she takes a seat beside him, her lips twisting for a moment before she starts speaking.

“We found you lying on the pavement of a church in Kentucky about a month ago.”

“Why on earth would I be there?” He had never been religious and had never felt any particular desire to travel to  _Kentucky_  of all places.

“We are not entirely sure. But from a few items we found on you, mainly your glasses, you were there on business for whatever intelligence agency you belong to.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tequila tensing, but it’s the last of Harry’s concerns.

“I’m sorry, are you trying to tell me that I am a… A spy of some sorts?” That’s completely preposterous and he starts laughing, only to stop abruptly when neither of them join him. They only look serious, far too serious. “That’s ridiculous! I am lepidopterist! Not some… James Bond!” He doesn’t mention how he far preferred the villains anyway. Somehow, it doesn’t seem the right thing to say in the circumstances.

“A lepridro-what?” Tequila asks, looking even more suspicious than before.

“A lepidopterist, they study butterflies and moths,” Ginger answers calmly, while Harry is still reeling from the revelation that they believe him to be some kind of secret spy. “You’re sure that doesn’t jog any memory?”

He shakes his head vigorously and he’s never wanted more to be back home, in his own bed rather than dealing with this utter nonsense. They’re crazy the two of them if they think he could be some sort of super agent.

“I’m a lepidopterist!” His biggest dream is to find a new kind of butterflies, he wants to yell, but he chokes on the words, chokes on  _air_. He cannot breath, his vision darkening and Ginger’s hand gripping his suddenly becomes his only lifeline.

That and the conviction that he is Harry Hart, lepidopterist and has never been anyone else.

He doesn’t feel the needle piercing his skin, only falls into fretful sleep that leaves him believing he dreamt the whole encounter when he next wake up.

*

Harry has nearly succeeded in convincing himself it was just some kind of fever dream when Ginger comes back, Tequila still in tow.

It’s not so much the way the other man is looking at him, as if he’s some kind of dangerous animal, one that’s hurt and seconds away from lashing out, that makes his heart sink deep, but rather Ginger’s expression.

There’s a sadness now in her eyes that she cannot hide. Not that he thinks she is really trying. He still trusts her and he still believes she is entirely genuine, no matter her crazy theories about him.

“I want to show you something,”

It’s Tequila he’s wary off, his nervousness putting him on edge. He truly hopes he won’t be left alone with him for any reason.

He shivers when he realises he’s not sure whether that would be a bad idea for himself or for Tequila. There is no reason he could be a threat to the other man, right?

Ginger frowns when she sees him shivering, but she merely pulls the blankets higher on his chest, rubbing his arms lightly, mistaking his reaction for being cold instead of being afraid. He’s not sure if it’s for the best.

“I’d like to show you something,” her voice is soft and calming as it always is, but there an edge of something to it, something like reluctance that makes him tense up. “It’s pictures from the aftermath of whatever happened at that church. It’s possible it would trigger your memory.”

Tequila snorts, leaving no doubts as to what he thinks about that theory, but at least he looks sheepish when Ginger throws him a dark look. Harry still doesn’t like him, but the fact he obviously respects Ginger and takes his cues from her eases something in him.

“You think you’re up to try that?” Her smile is hopeful, but her fingers are nearly white where they tighthen around her clipboard.

Before yesterday, he would have been eager to find out about anything about the thirty years of his life he’s missing. Had been eager to discover if he had made a name for himself in the field, if he had discovered a new butterfly already, if his dream had changed. Now, though, he feels like he’s going to be sick.

He cannot know if he’s really a spy like they seem to be convinced about, but if he is, if at some point in his life he turned his life around so drastically… He’s not sure he wants to remember what might have happened to change his mind.

But he cannot live in uncertainty for the rest of his days.

Wordlessly, he holds up his hand for the clipboard.

It’s the first time he sees it from the front and for a moment he can only look at it, amazed by what seems to be a computer monitor on it, but one offering higher quality than anything he’s seen before, even the good televisions in the shops.

Ginger sits by his side on the mattress, not close enough for them to touch, but he can feel her warmth. He has half a mind to lean into her, but before he can shift closer, she presses one of the icon on the screen and a picture pops up.

It’s a church, the building rather quaint and Harry can honestly say he’s never seen it in his life… Probably. He frowns, something twisting in the back of his mind and he puts a finger to the screen so that he can flip to another picture.

He doesn’t realise that by all accounts he shouldn’t know how to use the technology and Ginger by his side is careful not to make a sound, but she exchange a meaningful look with Tequila. However, where she is hopeful and happy, his expression only darkens and his hand gets closer to his gun hidden under the denim of his jacket.

Of this, Harry sees nothing.

He cannot look away from the pictures. The outside of the church hadn’t been so bad, even if there had been a spot of the pavement that had still been redden by fresh blood. It could have been anything, even if Harry had had an inkling that it was the spot they had found him.

Still, that didn’t mean he was a spy. He could have been there for any number of reasons, even as a lepidopterist. After all, there are butterflies in Kentucky too.

It’s the inside of the church that gives him pause. It’s only wide shots, at least at first, but already he feels nauseous. All those people, all  _dead_ … It’s a complete carnage.

“Who… Who else survived?” The words are hard to say and he cannot look away even if he wants to, still flipping through the pictures, a nameless horror filling him. The close-ups are dreadful and he feels bile coming up. Still he persevere, hoping against hope that there will be some kind of reason behind all that violence.

He jumps when Ginger lays her hand on his, the one that’s gripping the edge of the clipboard, but he still cannot look away. “You… You were the only to get out Harry.”

 _That_  makes him wrench his eye away from the gruesomeness so that he can stare at Ginger, willing her to be lying for once, but she’s looking at him with what can only be compassion.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

After that point he doesn’t remember much, but he thinks it’s a safe bet that he really ended up being sick. When he next comes to later, the clipboard has been taken away, but Ginger is still sitting at his side, but on the chair this time. It’s not the same comfort as it once was, if only because he can see Tequila in the doorway. His body language marks him as bored out of his mind, but there is an alertness in his eyes he simply cannot hide. He looks as if he’s ready for battle and  _that_  is more comforting for some reason.

Because no matter the mantra he keeps repeating in his mind, he fears that he is wrong. It’s better if someone is ready to stop him.

_I’m Harry Hart. I’m a lepidopterist. I’m not a monster. I’m not a monster._

*

A few days later, he’s given a new room.

It’s more of a padded cell really, but Harry cannot be bothered to mind. His memories are still beyond his reach, but after seeing the pictures of the church, he cannot hide from the truth anymore.

Right now, he might simply be Harry Hart, lepidopterist, but somewhere along the way he’s become a monster. That he has forgotten about it doesn’t absolve him of his sins.

It’s a relief that he’s not released on an unsuspecting population and not a decision he would protest. He doesn’t trust himself around anyone.

Ginger is obviously of another mind and she keeps visiting him at least once a day, treating him no differently than she did before. She even brings him books on butterflies and moths, research articles and news of his chosen field of study, pens and art supplies for his own work. She listens to him with clear interest and curiously asks about all his drawings, never bothered that most of it are done on the walls.

He still trusts her and even comes to consider her a friend, but sometimes when he wakes up from nightmares of what probably happened in the church to her hand gently playing in his hair, her kindness makes him sick. If his nightmares are anywhere close to the truth of what happened that day, he doesn’t deserve her.

But Harry is weak and he can never make himself ask her to leave him alone.

Tequila is another who becomes a bit of a friend. Not that he thinks it’s reciprocal, but he likes the other man’s brutal honesty when he comes to take him to the gym. He cannot go there on his own, so he’s stuck with having Tequila as a babysitter, but it’s more than fine with him.

The few people he encounters usually look at him with pity. Tequila only ever looks at him with wariness, as if he’s waiting for him to go rabid.

It was a bit jarring at first, but now he finds it comforting. If he does go off the deep end, Tequila will stop him. Probably quip something about how it’s nothing personal and Harry would be inclined to believe him.

Because Tequila might never be a true friend but he thinks they have some kind of understanding, some kind of affinity. He’s the one who started calling him  _butterfly guy_  and from his lips, it’s not an insult nor a pet name.

It’s far less fancy than  _lepidopterist_ , but much closer to the truth now. Stuck in a white cell, with only his books to look at and Ginger to speak with,  _butterfly guy_  is closer to what he is.

It’s better than  _monster_  at least, better than  _freak_  and maybe he doesn’t deserve better at all, but he cannot fight the tiny hope that maybe, just maybe they are all wrong.

Maybe he didn’t kill all those people, maybe he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That’s easier to believe while he is running on the treadmill in the bright lights of the gym, than when he just woke up from another horrifying dream. It sounds like a ridiculous hope when he’s stuck staring at his hands in the dark, wondering if he’s imagining all the blood that covers them or if maybe, he’s not imagining  _enough_  of it.

_I’m a lepidopterist, I’m a lepidopterist. Please, tell me I’m just a lepidopterist._

*

The days blurr together after a while, but Harry never complains, even when boredom sometimes plagues him and the walls seem to close in around him.

He fancies sometime that he is in purgatory, because he needs to be punished for his sins, but that whatever Power up there decided against Hell since his memories seem lost forever.

Saying he likes his routine might be a tad too much, but he’s content and he’s safe. It’s probably far more than he deserves.

And then everything comes crashing around him when the two well-dressed gentlemen are let into his room.

Even before the younger one tries to hug him, even before they tell him about their shoes in terms he recognizes instinctively even if he’s never cared about such things before, even before all that, he  _knows_.

Something uncoils inside of him as he first glances up at them, a tension he hadn’t been aware of before. It’s not quite  _recognition_ , but it’s  _conviction_  that he knows those men and that those men knows  _him_.

By all means, he should be relieved, but instead, panic rises inside of him.

Whoever they knew before, it’s no longer him. He’s a lepidopterist, he’s a  _butterfly guy_ , he wants nothing to do with them.

Already he feels it hurtling itself at the seams of his control, the  _monster_ , and if it’s who he is with them, he’d rather never remember. He’d rather live with the guilt their devastated expressions awaken in him.

There are enough monsters on this world already, they don’t need to awaken more of them.


End file.
